notes from a southpaw

University of Northern Iowa

Notes from a SouthpawAuthor(s): A. Van JordanReviewed work(s):Source: The North American Review, Vol. 286, No. 2, The National Poetry Month Issue (Mar. -Apr., 2001), pp. 10-12Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25126565 .

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NAR

A. VAN JORDAN

Notes From A Southpaw

Date: Monday, March 25, 1996,

just another day in DC, and I drink with a friend

in Georgetown, after work.

I'm killing a couple of hours

before I hear Toni Morrison deliver

her Jefferson Lecture at the Kennedy Center.

Inside the Crossing Guard bar, the white bartender and all his white

patrons watch the afterglow of OJ's civil case. A white guy in a gray suit

sidles up next to me;

he holds his drink in his left, a cigarette in his right.

The TV switches, now,

to news of the AIDS-related death

of rapper Easy E. My friend

is not white, Iranian, and I'm the only black

in this bar in Chocolate City. The guy sitting next to me

says he's tired of these niggers

like OJ, tired of rappers using the word

motherfucker. He says how would

they like to hear me call them all niggers.

His words are blurring, there's static and then distinctly,

again, Nigger. My friend now tries to capture me

in the spiral of his large, Persian eyes; he hopes

I didn't hear the guy, but he knows me better than this.

Listen, I say, why don't you take that shit somewhere else?

He says, Vm not calling y ou a nigger unless you feel like one.

Note: Try not to feel

like one when white people call you this word. Remember history. Don't give power to the word. I don't want him to think

FINALISTS JAMES HEARST POETRY PRIZE

10 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW March/April 2001



A. VAN JORDAN

I am everything he thinks I am. Does that make sense?

Every time someone black makes the 11:00 news,

someone white says, See. That's the problem,

and then I walk into a bar in Georgetown, see?

Question: What would Poirier do

in a situation like this?

What does a man say, when he doesn't want to erupt,

but still wants to act like a man?

I say, you just shouldn 't be so cavalier

about throwing around that word.

So the guy picks up his bar stool, holds it over his shoulder

like a baseball bat, tells me to say something else,

asks me?in a way that's not really a question?if

I want some of this. I'm still cool. I tell him

/ don't want any trouble. That's right, he says,

and sits back down. Question: In American history, how many men

were called niggers in front of their wives and children

but couldn't do anything about it?

I wonder how many times he's used the word

nigger in his life.

He comments on his victory

to the bartender, who laughs nervously.

Date: April 1972, recess at Schumacher Elementary, I befriend the only white kid in school.

Even at this age, my other friends

think I'm crazy; they already had that lesson.

I learned mine when I beat him at racing,

and he called me a word I had never heard before; his folks had already given him his lesson, too.

Nigger! Still bleeds inside my ear.

Date: October 19, 1977.

When I was a boy, I used to fight all the time.

When we would box at the Y, although I'm right-handed,

I used a southpaw stance. People never knew

what to make of it. I started this because I got beat once by a guy who really was a southpaw.

I never forgot the surprise and the pain of getting hit, when I least expected it.

Rushing with a left-handed blur,


March/April 2001 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 11



NAR

which I only saw when he drew it back, he set me up for the overhand right.

My hands shifted gears,

freckling his face, the leather grazed and slipped.

Comb?nate! My trainer prayed, Comb?nate!

But the southpaw cut the ring off

carrying nightfall in each hand.

Note: Always throw more than one punch.

I knew, if I got hurt, I would have to explain to my mother, a Christian woman?my swollen eyes,

my curiosity with danger,

my mouth, full of crimson?when I got home.

This held me back, this need to explain to someone who loved me,

why I had to act like an animal, or,

yes, like a nigger. Note: It's been nearly 20 years since I lived in my mother's house.

Now, this white guy here in the suit, he thinks I forgot about him as I sip my beer and wait.

I size him up: he's a little bigger than me

but he's also a little older, which means

he probably has more to lose. Note:

The one who has more to lose always loses.

I turn to look at him, and he looks at me; for this moment

we could be lovers as easily as enemies.

I throw my beer and it explodes in his face.

Beer and blood and niggers and whites

and I'm dancing in the middle of this constellation.

My punches land clean. I'm standing over him now.

He tries to crawl away. But, it's too late. The history

that stopped me earlier, now, won't let me stop.

Question: What will he learn from this beating that I haven't learned from all of my losses?

And when the police get here, tell me, how do I make them understand all of this?

RICHARD LEVINE

Touch the Safe

In the kitchen we found an opening our eyes and laughter fell through.

Circling like magnetic eggs, we set out

cups and saucers and tried not to break.

Our spouses waited just the other side

of the door, but when her head

rolled back exposing her throat, and her heat and perfume fanned my face,

I wanted to embrace her, probing for her soul with my swollen tongue, the mere thought of all we'd never

done exploding between us like an airbag.

Buttons and zippers and fingers and lips all grew thick, and our flesh

spilled light as if spontaneous combustion were possible. We were

ready to be weak, when with a quick tuck she put her hair and our senses

back in place, guiding our hands to touch the safe making of coffee,

as if prudence could smother a flame, as if we were not forever changed.


12 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW March/April 2001



notes from a southpaw

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